


Little by little

by charlesanthonybruno



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Friendship, Gen, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:57:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlesanthonybruno/pseuds/charlesanthonybruno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Throughout the centuries, long before Arthur wakes, fate gives Merlin pieces of his life back.<br/>A reincarnation AU in vignettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gwaine

**Author's Note:**

> Can be found on tumblr [here](http://charlesanthonybruno.tumblr.com/tagged/reincarnation-AU).

Gwaine is the first to come back.

Merlin is treading through the crowd on a busy street and walks right by him, wouldn't even have noticed. It's not that he would deliberately ignore him, but after millenniums of having his breath catch in his throat at every golden head, every dark-haired man with a roguish grin, every tall man with giant arms, piercing green eyes in a pale, beautiful face, or dark curls framing warm eyes and a kind smile, Merlin's learned not to notice. But the man jerks as he walks past, as if burned. They bump into each other, and when Merlin turns to apologise, he's stunned into stillness.

The hair is shorter, and he's clean shaven, but the face is the same. Merlin never forgot it, couldn't even if he wanted to. He stares, so completely unprepared for the shock of seeing a familiar face after so long that he cannot make himself turn away or try and be subtle about it.

“You all right, mate?” the man asks around an easy, friendly grin, and Merlin could weep at the memories of seeing this exact same smile so many times before, so many centuries ago. He wants to say he's fine, but he's smiling so hard he cannot form words. He nods, sure he must look like a lunatic, what with the smile and his eyes tearing up and the creepy staring because it's Gwaine, Gwaine standing right in front of him. He clears his throat, tries to rein in his bubbling euphoria.

“Yeah,” he croaks, “Yeah, I'm good. Thanks. Sorry.”

The man nods, looking at Merlin like he isn't quite sure what to make of him.

“Have we met?” he asks after a short pause, head tilted, staring right back with a frown, curious.

Merlin stops breathing for a second and has to laugh to get his lungs working again. He shrugs, makes himself look as harmless as he can.

“Maybe, who knows,” he doesn't quite choke on the words, but it's a close thing. “Maybe I look like an old friend of yours.”

He gets a raised eyebrow in answer, before the man shakes his head, giving up or giving in, Merlin doesn't know. He's ready to turn around and walk away while he is still mostly sane, but the man extends his hand. Merlin finds himself staring again, taken aback. He can feel something in him shift just then, slotting into place, as if he'd been missing a part of him without even noticing and suddenly found it. Deep, deep inside him, his magic flows, undisturbed, but he can feel it soar, bright and warm and blinding. For half a second, the street and the crowd vanish and there's only him and this man saying goodbye for the first time. He takes the offered hand as the outside world comes crashing back.

“Look after yourself,” the man says, sliding his hand up to grasp Merlin's wrist and squeezing once before letting go. By the time Merlin's blinked away the tears, he's gone, and Merlin feels hope again.


	2. Percival

Percival is a blinding light.

There is a fire in the city. It isn't uncommon these days, and Merlin has grown wary. It isn't often that he encounters magic now, and more and more, it is a dark, twisted magic that slinks and slips through cracks to grasp and strangle and hurt. It is cowardly and gratuitous in a way that makes his blood burn and turns his eyes a flickering gold. 

This time it's an orphanage. When Merlin gets there, half of the building has crumbled, leaving only a messy heap of scorched remains. There are children already outside, holding onto to each other, watching the fire with wide eyes. Some of them are crying, others are staring silently, horror painted in every line of their young faces. 

He doesn't hesitate, doesn't even think of making sure he's hidden. He's an old man, now, no one pays attention to an old man. The words come easily, catching the flames as they rise higher and higher to lick at the stars, smothering the sparks, cooling the foundations of the building. There are people inside, he can feel them moving through corridors, trying to reach the nearest exit. Children, yes, but a man is among them, leading them. He shines so bright that for a second Merlin wonders whether it isn't another sorcerer, but no, there is no magic in him. Merlin eases their way, holding the ceilings above their heads, pushing the flames away, clearing the smoke to let them breathe.

A crowd is gathering around the burning building, people are holding the children, asking them if they are injured, giving them water and trying to take them away from the flames. Merlin steps back. The man and the children still trapped inside are almost at the door. He'll make sure they're out and safe, then he'll leave.  
One little boy rushes out the door coughing and crying, then another boy, a little older, holding hands with a tiny girl. There is ash in their hair and on their clothes, but they don't look hurt. The others are only a couple of seconds behind, Merlin knows it. Slowly, he lets go of the ceilings, the smoke and the flames. The huge shape of a man emerges form the smoke into the courtyard, tall and straight backed even as he is holding three children in his arms. Merlin sighs in relief and waits for them to be far enough to let the building collapse. 

He is about to just turn around and leave when curiosity gets the better of him. He felt the man's presence so strongly earlier, there must be a reason. He looks over at where the children are gathered, the man right in the middle of them, making sure everyone is all right. It's just a glimpse, but it is enough. Merlin's breath catch in his throat. Gwaine looked slightly different from the knight Merlin knew in Camelot, but Percival looks exactly the same. For a second, Merlin half expects the flame behind him to drape around his broad shoulders in a flowing red cloak. He lets himself look, incredulous, basking in the certainty that takes hold of him then.

They are coming back. They are all coming back.


	3. Gwen

Gwen finds him.

It's a new Spring and Merlin is an old man again. He's sitting in a park in the middle of what people now call Glastonbury, letting the sun kiss his weary face. It's a gorgeous day. Merlin wishes he could appreciate it the way he used to, but some days he doesn't have the strength. It's been ninety-three years since Percival, a hundred and twelve since Gwaine. The certainty he felt then has had time to turn into anxiousness, then doubt, then bitter resignation. All that is left now is the same faith Merlin's always had. Hope's left him again, but his faith he clings to, cannot not.  
A tiny girl with wild brown curls and a purple dress climbs on the bench to sit beside him.

“Who are you waiting for?”

It isn't a shock, not the way the knights were. The lilting vowels wrap around him, warm and familiar despite the much younger voice, and he lets them, doesn't even think about turning away, even when his heart starts beating too hard and his throat closes up. He shuts his eyes, holding onto the feeling for as long as he can, and when he opens them and turns his head to the left, Gwen's eyes are staring curiously back. She can't be older than nine, and Merlin wants to cry because she looks at him with too much kindness and concern for a little girl who has no idea who he is. It isn't fair.

“What makes you think I'm waiting for someone?”

“You look sad,” she says, matter-of-fact in that way only children have. 

Merlin smiles, crosses his hands on his lap, skin dry and tight around the bones in his fingers. It seems silly that such simple words could affect him so much after all this time. It isn't as if he's ever been unaware of how much Arthur means to him and how much losing him hurt and hurts still; but it's been ninety-three years since Percival, Merlin is so lonely his soul aches with it, and Gwen is right there, solemn and patient, wearing the face of a child, but looking up at him with eyes that have seen hundreds of years. 

“His name is Arthur,” he says in a whisper, broken and frail. “I lost him.”

“Is he dead?” Gwen asks, looking genuinely distressed at the mere idea of it. Merlin has never missed her more.

“No,” he shakes his head, “no, he's asleep.”

“Does that mean you'll find him when he wakes up, then?”

“Yes, I hope so.”

She smiles, relieved, and is about to speak when someone calls her name from a few paces away. She lets out a guilty “oh” before sliding off the bench, flustered. “It's my brother, I have to go.” She smoothes out the creases in her dress, and glances at Merlin, suddenly shy.

“I hope your friend wakes up soon,” she awkwardly reaches out to squeeze his hand once, before running to her brother. When he looks down at his clasped hands, his skin is young again.


	4. Mordred

Mordred remembers everything.

Merlin hears him before he sees him. He has had countless nightmares and dreams through the centuries, so the voice of the druid boy inside his head calling him with a name Merlin fears as much as he hates does not alarm him. He has learnt to live with it; the memories, the reminders, the guilt and sorrow and anger and regret. They have carved themselves a place within his heart, his head, his soul that Merlin has long since accepted. _Emrys_ , the child calls, and Merlin doesn't pretend not to hear, but doesn't let the memories overwhelm him either, not anymore. _Emrys_ , and Merlin closes his eyes and keeps walking. _Emrys_ , and thirty five years have gone by, Merlin sheds his old skin to become young once again. _Emrys_ , and Merlin sighs, the dream blurring around the edges, sounds muffled and distant, losing strength as sleep leaves him.  
_Merlin_ , and Merlin jolts awake, wide-eyed and sweaty, heart pounding as he grips the sheets. “Merlin,” the voice calls again, deeper, older, stronger. Merlin's magic soars, answering instinctively to what cannot be a simple memory, the intensity of it too great, its power too real. He sits up in a daze, gets dressed, and lets his feet lead him. He doesn't know how long he walks, but it's a different morning when the fog in his mind clears and he finds himself on the shore of a lake he doesn't recognise. Mordred is sitting on the ground, looking down. He looks smaller than Merlin remembers.  


“Why are you here?” Merlin hisses, filled with a rage so out of his control that it scares him. “Why you? Why do _you_ get to come back when he still hasn't?” Mordred tenses at the words, his hands curl into fists, but he doesn't lash out, doesn't defend himself.  


“I'm sorry.”  


He's crying.  


Whatever Merlin expected, it wasn't this. He wants to cling to his rage; he's been kind enough, he is allowed. But he is older now. He has thought about their story too much, he knows how it plays out, knows it was always going to end this way. Mordred's eyes, when he faces Merlin, are paler than they used to be, and red from the tears he is still shedding. Merlin, who thought seeing Gwaine, and Percival, and Gwen again would have prepared him, feels abruptly hollow, as if he'd taken in too much air and lost his centre of gravity. He looks so young. They were all so young, they all _died_ so young. What kind of destiny justifies that? Merlin sighs, earth solid beneath his feet as his body becomes heavy again, anger leaving place to the familiar burden of too much knowledge.  


“Do you hate me?” Mordred asks, staring at the lake. He sounds both hopeful and resigned, curious yet distant.

Merlin draws a shaky breath. “I don't know.”  


“I believed you,” Mordred says after a pause. “I remembered Arthur from that time when I was a child. When we met again, I thought I would give him a chance.” He swallows, wipes his tears, and when he speaks again his voice is steadier. “I believed in him. He was brave, and fair, and nothing at all like I'd been told his father was, and I believed in him. I liked him,” he says in a helpless, desperate scoff. Merlin knows where this is going, and he hates it, but he keeps quiet, braces himself. “But you,” Mordred goes on, low and accusing, “you never trusted me. You said Arthur would make it possible for us to live in freedom again, and I believed you, but it wasn't him I needed to convince.” He shakes his head, jaw tight. When he turns his eyes to Merlin, they are scorching in their coldness. “I did everything I could. No matter how many times I proved myself, how many times I showed my loyalty, you wouldn't trust me.”  


Merlin knew this might happen as soon as he realised Mordred was back. It doesn't hurt any less, though. Out of every possible paths Mordred could have chosen, every way he could have been reborn, there had always been enough hope, and love, and passion in him for it to prevail. It's almost cruel.  


“I tried!” Mordred shouts, composure gone. “But you never trusted me! Why didn't you trust me?” _What did I do wrong_ , he doesn't say. In that moment, Merlin misses his young heart, the one that could have broken for Mordred and cried for the waste of his soul. As it is, he stands still, his ancient heart clenching only slightly.  


“What if I had?” he says instead, because Mordred must know, just as Merlin knew then, knows now. It had all been foretold before they were even born. Destinies woven into the fabric of the world, sealed by a power far greater than either of them would ever be. “There was never any choice for us, Mordred.”  


Merlin has seen fate crush people under its weight countless times. Seeing it smother the very last flicker of hope in Mordred's eyes is possibly the most painful, because even as he watches the boy lose all chance of ever making amends for what he has done, Merlin still cannot forgive him.  


They remain on the lake shore for what could be seconds as well as hours, unable to move. Eventually, Mordred stands up. As he does, it's like the earth shifts beneath Merlin's feet; a shiver runs down his spine. When he speaks, Mordred's voice is quiet, sad, the fight gone out of him completely. 

“When the others come back,” he says, “if they ever remember me fondly, please do not tell them of what I did.” It is a promise Merlin cannot make, and they both know it. Merlin closes his eye, trying to keep his magic in when it wants to reach out, longing for its kin when it feels him slipping away. He breathes deeply, and when he opens his eyes he is alone, a single ripple troubling the water.


	5. Lancelot

Lancelot knows.

When Merlin thinks about it, later, he ducks his head, a wistful smile playing on his lips; he shouldn't have been surprised.

It's been exactly seven years since the day Gwen came to Merlin and shared a bit of her soul with him. Merlin isn't in Glastonbury anymore, cannot afford to stay in one place too long lest people start to notice that he has been here for a very long time. He's sitting in a park again, though. Today, he can enjoy the breeze ruffling his hair, the sun warming his limbs, the songs of the birds, and the smell of flowers freshly bloomed. Today, Merlin is not worried, he is not lost. Today, Merlin is waiting. No one bothers him, no one even seems to see him, but he doesn't mind. When the sky darkens, turning rose then periwinkle, and the first stars pierce through thin clouds, he gets up and walks home.

The next day, he goes to the park again, sits on the same bench, and waits. The breeze is slightly colder, tinting his cheeks pink and turning his dark eyes a vibrant, electric blue. That's when he catches sight of him. Merlin doesn't even need to see his face to recognise him. It's like seeing Gwaine for the first time after thousands of years. His heart races, and his limbs feel suddenly lighter, a simple, unabashed joy pulsing through his veins like his blood itself can feel that someone dear is finally close again. Maybe it can, or maybe there's no blood left in Merlin's veins after so long and the liquid coursing through him is golden and bright, and keeping him warm and alive because it knows everything is coming together at last. Either way, there is no fear, no anxiousness. Merlin remains seated, his fingertips sparking with magic, harmless and invisible but too strong to be contained. Lancelot walks right past him without a glance. Merlin shakes his head, chuckling. He'll come back tomorrow.

Lancelot is there again the next day, as Merlin knew he would be. He walks past Merlin again, just as the sun starts to set. This time, he notices the young man sitting alone on his bench. Merlin looks back, returns the polite nod that Lancelot offers him.

The next day, with the nod comes the first spark of recognition. Merlin doesn't let it fool him. It might only be because Lancelot remembers him from the previous day. Merlin is not worried, though, he is disposed to wait. He is excellent at waiting, after all.

The next day, with the nod and the spark comes a small, friendly smile and something that looks like a question in Lancelot dark, intelligent eyes. Merlin has to sit on his hands to hide the not-so invisible anymore glow of his magic begging to reach out.

They settle into a routine of sorts. Every day, they see each other, and every day Merlin watches as Lancelot considers him, sees him and acknowledges him in a way none of the others have before. Gwaine had asked, but a dismissive answer had been enough to derail him. Lancelot looks more intrigued every day, and Merlin knows it's only a matter of time before _why does he look familiar?_ turns into _where have I seen him before?_ Merlin trusts Lancelot just as much he's trusted him in the past, he will gladly give him the time he needs.

Then, and maybe Merlin should have expected it, Lancelot goes and exceeds all his expectations. It's barely midday, this time, when Merlin spots the familiar figure walking up the path to where he is seated. He smiles, an automatic response by now, ready to nod back and offer his friendliest smile. Except, Lancelot doesn't greet him, doesn't even walk past like he usually does. He stops right in front of Merlin, runs a hand through his hair, embarrassed and unsure, before nodding to himself. 

“This is going to sound odd,” he says, half apologetic, half hopeful, peering at Merlin with an almost wonder that has Merlin's heart skip a beat, “but is your name Merlin?”

Merlin's smile slides right off his face, he is so stunned. The shock of the question itself coupled with hearing his name uttered by Lancelot's voice leaves him completely silent, as if unable to decide how to react. He had hoped for this, of course he had, but he'd never thought it would happen, never in a thousand years. He gets a hold of himself when Lancelot grows visibly uneasy at his lack of response, and nods. Merlin has no idea what his face looks like, but whatever expression he's wearing, Lancelot must see something in it, because he smiles, gentle, so gentle, before taking a hesitant step forward. “Can I?” he asks, gesturing to the empty space next to Merlin. Merlin can only nod again and watch as Lancelot sits next to him. This close, he looks relieved, but shaken. Merlin realises then that, as painful and lonely as it is for him to wait for all of them to come back, at least he knows why he's here, knows who he is. He has no idea how much Lancelot remembers, if he even really remembers anything or is just acting on a feeling, trusting his heart the way he always did, lead by a force that this world has forgotten even exists. 

It must be terrifying.

So, when Lancelot finally turns to him, quiet yet certain, and says “I know you,” Merlin doesn't duck his head, doesn't hide, doesn't play the harmless stranger. He thinks about Lancelot confessing his love for Gwen and giving her up to spare two hearts, none of them his own. He thinks about himself, not having to hide his magic and being met with a proud, trusting smile. He thinks about all the ways Lancelot is the very best friend he ever had. 

“Yes,” he says, open and happy in a way he hasn't allowed himself for far too long. “Yes, you do.”


	6. Morgana

Morgana is a figure in the crowd.

She stands tall and proud, bright green eyes and crimson lips. I am the friend you betrayed, says the curve of her neck. I am the kin you hid from, says the gold at her fingertips. I am the lost soul you refused to help, say her small, frail shoulders.  
I am the one who will never forgive you, says the tilt of her chin when she turns to him, so overwhelming in her fury that Merlin stumbles. He tries to breathe, tries to take in more air but all he tastes is crackling energy burning down his throat, scorching his lungs, his veins, smothering his heart. _Why_ , echoes against his skull, pounding and drumming, threatening to crack the bones and drown him. _Why were you always so loyal to him, Emrys?_

Merlin chokes, staggers away. There is no good answer to this question, not for Morgana, there never was. 

Guilt wound tight around his throat, Merlin runs.


	7. Gwaine

Then it is Gwaine again.

Merlin feels him, and that is new. So far, they were all unexpected, glorious bursts of light he stumbled upon at the most unpredictable moments, but not this time. This time, when Merlin wakes, there is the echo of a second heartbeat in the shadow of his own, and he knows.

He does not force it, does not seek him out. It is a clear, cold day. The townspeople are grim-faced, going about their business with their collars up and shoulders hunched. Merlin has not been in Carlisle long, but he is already itching to leave. Yesterday, he could not even remember what had made him come here; now he walks with a spring in his step and a smile on his face. The new century is only a year away, maybe things are about to change at last. Merlin hopes, it is what he does best.

He has to wait for the first stars to peek timidly through the clouds to finally get a glimpse of him. Gwaine is headed towards a pub, and Merlin is utterly unsurprised. He follows, sparing a second to roll his eyes.

It's dark inside, the air thick with smoke and the smell of alcohol. Merlin feels ill at ease as soon as he steps in. He's been in taverns and pubs before, but the hushed, heavy atmosphere makes his skin crawl. Merlin doesn't like this town, but if Gwaine is here he will put up with it. Spotting him is easy enough; he is sitting at the bar, left hand holding a pint, right hand on the waist of a girl who can only be a prostitute. Merlin frowns slightly. For all he bragged and flirted, Gwaine was never all that interested in prostitutes in Camelot. He is about to walk over to him anyway, when his magic slows him, gets hold of his limbs and forces him into stillness. Something is wrong, it says. Merlin knows that, has known since he set foot in this city, but this is _Gwaine_.

Except it isn't, not really.

It isn't the hair nor the scruff, though last time there was a lot less of both. It isn't even the face. It's the way he moves, the way his figure catches the light and seems to swallow it; it's the terrifying broadness of his shoulders, the cruel curve of his smile, the dullness of his eyes; it's the greedy way he downs his drink, the mean grip on the girl's skin; it's the lines on his forehead and the bruises on his knuckles.

Merlin used to think sometimes, when the centuries stretched too long, when age and loneliness seeped in until his bones were soaked with them, he thought, bitter and ashamed, that the others had it easy. They were reborn brand new, no memories, no burden, no crippling longing for things and places and people whose names were forgotten so long ago they aren't even names anymore. You cannot miss something you do not remember, he used to think.

Oh but how wrong he was.

Mordred came back with enough love for Camelot to crush him. This Gwaine has come back with no Camelot at all.  
 _You can't keep living like this_ , Arthur had said. What happens when you do want to stop but find you don't have an anchor?  
Merlin watches as Gwaine drinks, and drinks and drinks, until he slips off his stool and joins a card game. He watches as Gwaine gambles away the small amount of money he has on him. He watches as even the prostitute leaves him to his sorry fate, as the other players tease him. He watches as the teasing turns ugly and vicious. He watches as Gwaine's posture changes, itching for a fight, something he knows he is good at. He is a drunkard and a madman, bare fists and rage burning under a too thin layer of skin his only weapons. Times have changed, there are only so many ways this can end.

“Gwaine!” Merlin calls out as the group stands up. The men head out, but Gwaine stays seated, turning to look at Merlin with bleary eyes.

“Know my name, do ya?” He sounds awful, scratchy and slow, voice too weak to even manage a sneer. Merlin wants to help him just as much as he wants to stay away.

“We were friends. Once,” he manages, throat tight. They stare at each other, Merlin willing Gwaine to remember and stop being so terrifyingly different, Gwaine eyeing him distractedly as if he were a curious animal.

“Sorry, lad, don't remember,” Gwaine says eventually around a careless shrug before standing up.

“Gwaine, wait!” _Don't go out, don't go with them, please._

In his very long life, it never occurred to Merlin that one day he would be scared of Gwaine. Yet, the look Gwaine gives him then chills him to the bone. It is ferocious and empty, hostile and alluring. It is a look Merlin has seen on the faces of people who tried to kill him. He steps back, almost stumbling in his shock.  
Gwaine tilts his head, frowns, and the look is gone.

'You're not from here, are you?” he asks. His voice sounds odd, but Merlin cannot decide whether it is a good thing or not. He shakes his head. Gwaine smiles at that. He looks suddenly a lot sober and so desperate that it frightens Merlin.

He leans in, too fast for someone who seemed drunk enough to pass out a moment ago, and grips Merlin's arm tight enough to hurt. “Me neither,” he whispers. “Now if you'll excuse me,” he says, louder, letting go, “I believe a couple of gentlemen are waiting for me.”

Before Merlin has time to decide what to do, Gwaine has disappeared through the back door and into the night.

Merlin doesn't remember what happens after that, only that he starts walking away and that the second heart that was beating next to his own since morning stops abruptly before he has even reached the edge of the city.

 

They are reborn, says his magic. Brand new. It will be fine.

 

It will be fine.


	8. Merlin

It's been two hundred and ninety eight years.

Or, rather, it's been three thousand, five hundred and fifty two years, eleven months, eighteen days. Merlin dreams.

Some nights, they're good dreams, half memories, half wishes, full of hope and what-ifs and when. Some nights, they're nightmares, all memories, no hope, no ifs, no when. Merlin is tired. One morning out of ten, out of thirty, he wakes up and, for a second, thinks about Arthur and doesn't have the strength to care any more. It scares him more than waiting ever did. He just wants to rest, just a little, just for a while.

Merlin dreams, Merlin wakes up. The sky is clear, the air is warm, and Arthur is dead.

Merlin dreams. Arthur is out in the field, swinging a sword that is too big for him, making a fool of himself while his father watches on with a fond, sad smile. Merlin wakes up, it's snowing, he's shivering, and Arthur is dead.

Merlin dreams. Arthur was never born.

Merlin dreams. Arthur fell off his horse when he was twelve and broke his spine. He drowned. He came back victorious and lived for a hundred years. He came back wounded.  
He came back.

Merlin wakes up.

It's been three thousand, five hundred and fifty four years, one month, three days, and Arthur is dead.


	9. Freya

“Merlin,” she says. It has been so long since anyone called his name that he does not turn around, does not lift his head. It must be where the voice is coming from, there is no point.

“Merlin,” she calls again, no echo, no ripples in his mind, but he feels her, knows her. Merlin stops walking, looks around. She laughs, and he can almost see her. He closes his eyes and there she stands, more beautiful than ever, radiant, luminous. Merlin would dare this doomed world to look upon her and refuse to believe in magic. “You have to come back,” she says with a smile, “as soon as you can.” Merlin's heart rate quickens. She must feel it, because before he can even ask, her voice wraps around him, soft and loving. “Yes,” it says. His breath leaves him in a soft, short laugh, tears well up in his eyes. His hands rise up to cover his mouth. Finally, _finally_. His magic thrums within him, it's a wonder it doesn't make his skin glow, his veins shine golden. Merlin takes a deep breath. Around him, people walk, talk, go about their business like the world didn't just tip slightly on its axis. In the blink of an eye, he vanishes.  
He doesn't care if anyone sees, he has somewhere he needs to be.

She is standing on the shore, her back to him, looking out over the water. The lake is as Merlin remembers, untouched by the modern world, forgotten, left in peace. He walks up to her, throat tight, and when she turns around it's like the last thousands years never happened. She rushes into his arms, fitting there like she never left, like he never had to let her go. He holds her close, breathes her in. She smells like rain and freshly cut grass, like sunshine on sand. When he kisses her, Merlin feels more alive than he has since Camlann took half of his heart. “How” he whispers, cradling her face. Her eyes are bright, her smile carefree and full of joy, and he loves her. “The sword has been claimed,” she says, her hands coming up to rest on his wrists, “my work is done. He's coming back, Merlin.” He closes his eyes, leans in until their foreheads touch. He is laughing through his tears, but she lets him, holds him close, holds him up.  
“Will you wait with me?” Merlin asks when he pulls back, wiping the tears away. She smiles, small and sad.  
“My work is done,” she repeats. “You've kept me alive all these years. Now I'm giving you back what will keep _you_ alive.”  
He takes a shuddering breath, passes a hand over his eyes. “I don't want to let you go.”  
“You aren't.”  
They stand together until the sky turns dark and the stars cross over their heads. Finally, she slips away from him, back to the water.  
“I love you,” she says.  
“I love you.”  
“Goodbye, Merlin.”  
“Goodbye, Freya.”

There's barely a ripple as the lake of Avalon swallows her whole. Merlin stands still, opens his arms wide, tilts his head back, and lets the night hold him upright. In his chest, his heart beats an old, never forgotten rhythm.

_Arthur. Arthur. Arthur._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this is avalaible on [tumblr](http://charlesanthonybruno.tumblr.com/tagged/reincarnation-AU).


	10. Arthur

Perhaps he should have known. Perhaps, after so long walking the earth, watching times change and people move on, he should have realised, should have seen. Wars stopped being simple long ago, but still, he had thought, had almost hoped -- 

Merlin sighs. Fairness, equality, honour; there is still so much love in this world that he failed to notice that those were fading. Merlin feels old, _is_ old. He looked upon his fellow men and saw clumsy children when he should have seen how vicious and greedy they are. It does not matter now, though, not anymore. So what if the world does not even need a war to call Arthur back? He will be back, that is what matters. Whatever trouble they face, Merlin knows that they will work through them together. 

 

Time fades. 

 

Merlin stands tall, bare feet on the grass, for what could be seconds as well as days. Freya left him but he feels her still right there under his skin, warm, loving. And then, one by one, like stars appearing in the sky, Merlin feels them. All the way up north, lost in the islands of Scotland, Gwaine is waking up; down in Wales, Percival starts his shift at the hospital; Gwen kisses Elyan goodbye on the doorstep of her tiny flat in London, Leon only a few blocks away; and Lancelot... Lancelot is already on his way, head full of memories that never left him despite the countless lives he's been through. 

Merlin feels them like sparks in his blood, familiar as his own skin. His feet barely touch the ground, he sees it all, their faces, the life within, the light that surrounds them.

 

Time stops.

 

The thing with magic is that it comes from the earth, it _is_ the earth, the air, water and star dust, the universe itself. When Merlin breathes, when he walks, when he closes his eyes and simply reaches out, he feels everything. So when Arthur wakes up, Merlin feels it like a ripple in his heart that sends waves rolling through his veins, crashing against his skin, trapped inside a body that has never felt so small, so human. It pushes him forward, wraps around his ankles, his ribs, lifts him up so easily his bones might as well be sea foam.

 

The clear surface of Avalon parts, opening a path for the boy once born of magic taken by force, now reborn from magic freely given. They have come full circle at last.

 

When he appears, Arthur shines so bright Merlin is afraid he will go blind and he wants to laugh. What a tragedy it would be, for him to have Arthur back and not be able to lay eyes on him. It swells inside him, this laugh, this joy, as his sight adjusts and he sees; golden blond hair, broad shoulders, the stance of a man who led armies to victory with their faith in him alone, gorgeous blue eyes that lock with his instantly.

Merlin had thought that he would be overwhelmed when the time came, that after so long he would not know how to be with Arthur anymore, but he was wrong. Gaze never wavering, Arthur steps forward, and Merlin feels no fear, no hesitation. Right then, in that exact moment between two breaths, with empty lungs and a heart too full, Merlin's soul rearranges itself, the millions of shattered pieces of him now reunited slot into place, and Merlin finally, finally feels whole again. Arthur is _there_ , tall, and young, and strong. He is the most beautiful thing Merlin has ever seen.

“My Lord.”

It's a wisp in the wind, a whisper of a sound, but it has Arthur's eyes light up, crinkling at the corners. 

“If I remember well, you only ever called me that once.”

Merlin does laugh, then, because he remembers too well, how could he not.

“Many things have changed since then.”

“You haven't.”

There is so much behind these two words. If Merlin had to explain himself, he would not even know where to start. But Arthur's voice is kind and without judgement, and his eyes filled with relief.

“I told you,” Merlin smiles, “I'm happy to be your servant until the day I die.”

“And it has not happened yet?”

“No.”

Arthur laughs, incredulous. There is no fear in his eyes, no distrust. He looks at Merlin and all Merlin can see is awe, affection, and love. He reaches out, and Arthur catches him, gentle fingers around his wrists tugging him close and closer still until, at last, Merlin grants Arthur his dying wish and holds him.

 _I have loved you for a thousand years_ , he breathes against Arthur's neck. 

_I will love you for a thousand more_ , Arthur traces along his spine. 

Merlin has never felt more alive.

“Lead the way, sire,” he says when they break apart, gesturing at the road ahead with a flourish.

Arthur grins, fond. He does not step forward, though. Instead, he wraps an arm around Merlin's shoulders, keeps him tucked against his side, and when he walks, he makes sure that Merlin is right next to him.

“Right here,” Arthur says, “right here is good.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this is originally made for [my tumblr](http://charlesanthonybruno.tumblr.com/tagged/reincarnation-AU) with pretty formatting etc. One final part to wrap it up, and we're done!


	11. END

 

 

>  
> 
>  
> 
> “This is the oath of a Knight of King Arther's Round Table and should be for all of us to take to heart.
> 
> I will develop my life for the greater good.
> 
> I will place character above riches, and concern for others above personal wealth,
> 
> I will never boast, but cherish humility instead,
> 
> I will speak the truth at all times, and forever keep my word,
> 
> I will defend those who cannot defend themselves,
> 
> I will honor and respect women, and refute sexism in all its guises,
> 
> I will uphold justice by being fair to all,
> 
> I will be faithful in love and loyal in friendship,
> 
> I will abhor scandals and gossip-neither partake nor delight in them,
> 
> I will be generous to the poor and to those who need help,
> 
> I will forgive when asked, that my own mistakes will be forgiven,
> 
> I will live my life with courtesy and honor from this day forward.”
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- _Le Morte d'Arthur_
> 
> Sir Thomas Malory
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, leaving comments and kudos!  
> This fic is available in its entirety [here on tumblr](http://charlesanthonybruno.tumblr.com/tagged/reincarnation-AU).


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